


Enter Player 2

by inkstiel (Theconsultingdetective)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Gamer!Cas, M/M, maybe eventual sabriel, mechanic!Dean, you can tell I haven't planned this out too well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theconsultingdetective/pseuds/inkstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Milton is not like his brothers. He does to play sports, or date often, or have many "friends." So when Gabriel sends him off to live with Sam Winchester, a old college friend, as what he calls an "exchange geek program," Castiel is already playing out all the ways this could go wrong. While hopelessly lost in the bus station, Castiel meets Dean, who coincidentally is headed to Lawrence, and who coincidentally develops a tiny crush on the video-game-loving, social-skills-lacking temporary roommate. What transpires over the two months spent with the Winchesters can only be called "serendipity" or "horrendous luck"-it depends on how you look at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Dangerous to Go Alone!

        Castiel had not ran in a very long time, and yet here he was, jogging what he had decided was a non-invasive distance after the man in a leather jacket and worn-kneed jeans, with his backpack jostling against him. He hadn't decided what had made him think that perhaps this man, out of all the ones wandering the Slygo Bus Station, knew the way to bus E12, but he was nearby, and the way he walked made him seem as though he knew what he was doing.  
"Excuse me," he called, almost inaudibly at first. "Um, excuse me. Sir?" The man paused and turned to face him.  
"Trust me, I'm no sir," he laughed. He extended a hand, the one that wasn't holding a messenger bag by it's fraying strap, and said, "Name's Dean. Can I help you?"  
Cas shifted his weight from foot to Doc Marten clad foot, and said, "My name's Castiel," as per Gabriel's instructions.  
"When somebody tells you their name, you tell them yours. That's how you make friends, Cas. You remember friends?" Gabriel had asked patronisingly when he drove Cas to the bus station.  
"Of course, Gabriel. I have friends."  
"Sure, sure," Gabriel said dismissively. "But if you don't give your name, you'll seem like what?" He paused for Castiel to supply a response.  
"A freak," Cas answered.  
"Precisely. Now, go get 'em, tiger," was the last thing Gabriel had said before clapping Cas on the shoulder and returning to the family car.  
"I was wondering," Cas said uncertainly to Dean, "if maybe you knew the way to bus E12." Dean paused and looked around, scanning the numbers printed large above the bus terminals.  
"Bus E12...hang on, lemme think." He lifted his head above the swirling crowd, shifting and surging in all directions like a massive school of hurried fish. "They're alphabetical, first, I think, so if you just find the "E"'s and then find 12, you should be there. Make sense alright?" he asked. Cas nodded, feeling a little foolish for having to ask for help on something so obvious.  
"Absolutely. Thank you," he said with a shy, unpracticed smile.  
"Anytime. Castiel, right?" Dean asked, pointing at him and smiling back, far brighter than Cas knew one could smile.  
"Yes. It was nice to meet you," he added.  
"Yeah, you too," Dean said, walking away into the seething mass of humanity that filled the station. "See ya around."  
 _Hopefully,_ Cas thought as he delved into the crowds.  


        Dean was always the "back of the bus" type. That was where he always sat en route to school, for different reasons in different grades. In elementary school, it was because that was where the bumps were the biggest. In middle school, it was because it was where the bus' speakers usually were, and sometimes his driver played the radio on the drive. And in high school, it was because that was where he and his ever-changing girlfriends could get some morning private time together. Castiel, the stranger-he seemed like a "front of the bus" type, no doubt. By the teachers, maybe. He probably liked the view, watching the cars pass, looking out the windscreen at all the other cars. Maybe he talked to the bus driver-maybe they knew each other by name. His house might've been one of the first on the route, so when he clambered aboard, still mostly asleep, he plopped down behind the driver, who would've probably been the first person to greet him good morning. He'd eat his Pop Tart and do the last of his homework, and when he was done with that he'd read a book-probably something too old for him, like Lord of the Rings in 2nd grade and Slaughterhouse 5 in 4th. All this daydreaming of strangers on busses got Dean horribly lost-before he knew it, he was down at the far end of the terminal, in the E's, and glancing around for something that said, "Lawrence, Kansas." That something came in the form of a schedule sheet, posted on one of the many columns around which the crowds diverged. He looked it over briefly- _Lawrence, Lawrence, Lawrence, aha. E12._ -before darting into the terminal, where his bus was departing in a matter of moments.  


        The bus roared and thunked angrily to life, feeling almost rickety to Cas, who was curled up against the window on the second row of seats, staring at his 3DS as though somehow that would bring it back to life. There was the loud echoing of footsteps on the concrete outside, and Cas glanced out the window, head cocked slightly. Running towards the bus, the doors of which were already closed, was a vaguely familiar form in torn jeans and carrying a bag- _Dean?_ The bus, driven by a grumpy, gravel-voiced old man with protruding knuckles and questionable driving skill, began to back out of the garage.  
"Wait, wait," Cas said quickly. "Wait for him."  
"He's late," the old man replied.  
"He's my friend, just wait," Cas pled. "Please?" Dean waved at the bus driver, who took his hands off the wheel in surrender and opened the door. Cas sighed in relief as Dean climbed up the steep steps and brandished his ticket at the driver.  
"Thanks for waiting," he said, handing it over.  
"Oh, don't thank me. Thank your friend here," he said gruffly, with a nod over his shoulder.  
"Cas," Dean said, green eyes lighting up. _He's the "front seat" type, after all,_ he thought.  
"Hello, Dean," Cas said. He lifted his bag from the seat beside him and dusted the stiff cushion off. "Have a seat."  
"Thanks, man," Dean said. "You really saved my ass back there."  
"Oh, it was nothing," Cas dismissed. "I merely returned the favour."  
Dean stopped, thought about the comment for a moment, and said, "You mean the terminal thing? Cas, that was nothing. That was human decency. Now I owe you one," Dean said. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a plastic bag of Twizzlers.  
"Give me one of those and I'll call it even," Cas decided.  
"Done," Dean said, drawing the longest one out and handing it to him. Cas pulled apart the vines and Dean laughed. He paused, looking wounded, and said, "What?" Dean waved the question away.  
"Nothing," Dean said. "My brother, Sammy, used to eat them that way. He hates 'em now-says they're bad for you-but I don't let that stop me."  
"Sam who?" Cas asked, furrowing his eyebrows.  
"Sam Winchester," Dean said. "Why?"  
"Does he live in Lawrence?" Cas asked.  
"Yep. 1145 Wesson Drive," Dean replied. "I'm going to visit him. What brings you to Lawrence, anyway?"  
"I'm staying with a friend...I think it's your brother," Cas said slowly. Dean raised his eyebrows.  
"You're not Castiel Milton, are you?" he asked, realisation dawning on his face. When he first heard Cas' name, he balked at it for a moment. Surely there weren't that many Castiels in the world? But then, the chance of meeting the very one staying at Sam's house for two months in a bus station filled with thousands of other people was slim to none.  
"The same," Cas nodded. "Which makes you the Dean," he said, emphasising "the" as though Dean was the one, the only, Dean Winchester.  
"I guess it does," Dean said with a smirk. "Small world, huh?"  
"Small world indeed," Cas agreed. Dean leaned back in his seat and propped his feet up on the headrest of the empty seat in front of him.  
"You want another?" he offered, passing him the bag of cherry liquorice.  
"Don't mind if I do," Cas replied, smiling a slowly brightening smile at the green-eyed man beside him.  



	2. Restart Level?

         The monolith of a bus rumbled down the near-empty highway, driving rain rapping against the plexiglass window where Cas was resting his head. The sound rattled his brain and filled his ears, but despite that, he still heard when Dean said, "How long's this drive gonna be?"  
"12 and a half hours," he answered from rote memory, lifting his head.  
"You countin' down the seconds?" Dean asked with a laugh. Cas smiled and nodded.  
"I suppose I am. I can't stand travelling-I find it so tedious. I like being away from home, no doubt, it's the interim that makes it a little difficult," he said, crossing his legs over his lap tightly and taking the thermos of tea out of his backpack, which sat at his feet.  
"Where is home for you?" Dean asked, gnawing on another Twizzler.  
"Heaven," Cas replied, sipping the lukewarm green tea that sloshed in the thermos as the bus jostled over the occasional knot in the rain-slicked road.  
"Are you getting existential on me, Cas? So early in the trip?" he asked, grinning. Cas shook his head.  
"No, no, I live in Heaven. Missouri, I mean. Heaven, Missouri."  
"I didn't know there _was_ a Heaven, Missouri," Dean said.  
"Yes, it's that kind of a town," Cas agreed. Dean chuckled.  
"So how'd you end up stuck with Sam for two months?" he asked.  
"Your brother and mine were old friends-camp mates, I believe-so he decided to continue the tradition with me. I think this is his effort to socialise me," Cas admitted. "I don't get out very much."  
"Can't tell," Dean muttered. Cas cocked his head and Dean, laughing at the innocent gesture, added, "you don't act like a shut-in."  
"I try," he replied with a noncommittal shrug. "And you're from Lawrence, correct?" Dean nodded. "Yep. How'd you know?"  
"I'm something of a linguist," he replied, tucking his battery-drained Nintendo back into his bag. "You have the same short vowels as a typical Kansas resident, although there is a slight Texas twang in your voice as well," he said, not realising how odd his diagnosis sounded until it was out of his mouth.  
"Jesus," Dean muttered. "My brother said you were smart, but he didn't mention you're a frigging genius." Cas blushed and smiled at his own feet.  
"I wouldn't quite say that," he dismissed. "I'm told I have too much spare time." He paused, staring out the window at the adjacent lanes. Traffic-that they would soon be in the midst of-was at a standstill.  
After a fortifying drink of tea, he turned back to Dean and asked, "What did Sam say about me?" Dean smiled.  
"What didn't he say? The kid couldn't shut up about you. Or your brother," he answered. Cas' heart plummeted. Dean's opinion of him had already been tainted by whatever it was Gabriel had told him, which, knowing his brother, was humiliating to no end.  
"Only nice things, 'course," Dean said.  
 _Oh, perfect. He reads minds, too,_ Cas thought.  
"Such as?" he asked.  
"Such as, your favourite book is _Catch 22_ , you're kinda shy, and you're in college at MU, majoring in graphic design and social science. Oh, and you play video games, just like Sammy," Dean listed from memory. Maybe it seemed a little odd that he managed to remember most every detail Sam had told him about Cas, where he typically couldn't remember his phone or jacket, and maybe it was. But then, he wasn't prone to overthinking. (He wasn't prone to much thinking, period, he'd been told when he was a kid.)  
"Lemme ask you something," Dean asked. "So if you're at MU, what're you doing in Lawrence, in the middle of the term?"  
"I've been granted a leave of absence," Cas said. Truth be told, he wasn't entirely clear on why he wasn't still at MU, although he assumed his parents were somehow involved.  
"Surveys and sketches all the time just got a little too much, huh?" he asked.  
"Not quite. I was enjoying it, but my parents made an executive decision and informed me I could use a break. So here I am," he said with a weak shrug.  
"Wow, " Dean said with a raise of his eyebrows. Finally, somebody with parents almost as overbearing as his.  
"My thoughts exactly," Cas muttered in agreement.  


         "It seems you have me at a bit of a disadvantage," Cas said. "You know most all there is to know about me, and I know next to nothing about you." Dean shrugged humbly.  
"There's not much to know, really," he said. "My favourite book's probably _Slaughterhouse Five._ You ever read it?" Cas nodded.  
"Yes, I have. It was alright, although _Catch 22_ still surpasses it."  
"Ya think?" Dean challenged jokingly.  
"I do," Cas replied confidently, quirking his eyebrow. "Have you read it?" Dean shook his head.  
"That's the one about WWII, right? By Joseph Heller?" Cas nodded.  
"I've got it in here." He reached into his bag and produced the worn, mark-filled copy of _Catch 22,_ dogeared and beaten at the corners. Around the pages were smudges of ink and pen and dirt, documenting fingerprints with remarkable clarity.  
"I guess you want me to read it, huh?" Dean asked. Cas handed him the book, and he scanned the back cover, flipping the pages gingerly. He always thought you could tell a lot about someone by the way they handle books, and if the care with which Dean was handling the old novel was any indication, he was about as good as they come.  
"Yes. And I dare you to tell me it isn't far better than _Slaughterhouse Five_ ," Cas answered.  
"You are so on," Dean replied, grinning. "I can have this thing read in an hour, maybe two." Cas turned his back to the window, leaning his head against the drenched pane of glass.  
"Alright," Cas said. "I expect a full report when you're through." Dean chuckled.  
"I'll take careful notes," he replied.  


         Cas smiled contentedly, closing his eyes for what was supposed to be only a moment and ended up being the better part of an hour. Dean, who was already deeply invested in _Catch 22_ , glanced up to notice him asleep, head nuzzled into his seat, knees pulled up to his chest, arms crossed tightly. Without a second thought, he tugged off his leather jacket and draped it over Cas, the shadows of the rain droplets collecting on the window playing across his face and arms. He found himself gazing for a long while at the sleeping pseudo-stranger, the serene look over his face, the way his hair was flattened against the window, sticking up behind him and making him look almost like a cockatiel, the narrow fit of his light-washed jeans. For two months, this unusual, fascinating person with a name ripped straight from some fantasy novel and a body from a clothing catalogue would be living in the room right next door to his own. He wasn't a big believer in fate, but he had to marvel at this-what were the chances that he'd meet the very man who'd be living with he and Sammy for the next few weeks? He propped his elbow up on Cas' knees and returned to the book, with his head in his hand, but despite his fascination with the book, the combination of the cloud-darkened sky and the slow tap of rain against the bus' roof was enough to put anyone to sleep. Sure enough, it's not ten minutes later that Dean dozes off with his head on Cas' knee and the book clutched to his chest, blue eyes and shyly smiling lips hovering in his dreams.  


         "Hey, lovebirds." A blonde with a ski slope nose and a red motorcycle jacket on kicked their bus seat, hard, and Cas sat up with a start, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.  
"We're not..." he began automatically, before noticing Dean, practically curled up at his feet like a cat and holding onto his book like a life raft. The jacket draped over him, which he found himself clinging to when he woke up, didn't really help his case. He pushed the jacket hurriedly to the ground- _you don't do things like this anymore,_ he reminded himself hastily-and sat up, nudging Dean awake.  
"Yeah, sure, if you say so," she laughed. "We're at the Smiton stop, in case you're getting off," she added, heavy boots thudding against the thin bus floor.  
"Alright, thank you," Cas said, composing himself. "Dean. Dean. Wake up, Dean." Dean sat up, eyes still shut, and wiped the accumulating drool from the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his Metallica t-shirt.  
"Cas. Hey," he said, still in a fog of sleep.  
"Yes, hello, Dean," Cas answered, a little awkwardly. Waking up and finding yourself cuddling the jacket of a person you've only just met, who has fallen asleep wrapped around your legs, is not exactly a comfortable situation, especially for someone with as much anxiety as Cas.  
"We've stopped at Smiton, if that means anything to you."  
"Not a thing," Dean replied. "Though I could use a walk...you wanna come with?" Cas blinked, furrowed his eyebrows, and looked back at Dean.  
"Do you want to come walking with me? Around the bus station?" he repeated, annunciating the words like Cas had somehow misunderstood. Cas weighed the options, like he was so used to doing-action A, resulting in consequence 1, resulting in action 1A, resulting in consequence 2, and on and on down the endless rabbit hole that was his mind. This method, pain in the ass though it was, was practically the only thing that kept Cas' life from evaporating into chaos and abject weeping. Dean raised his eyebrows expectantly.  
"Cas?"  
"I, uh, yes. Certainly. Please," he said, falling all over himself as he stepped out of the aisle. _Now what made you say that?_ he asked himself. This was not the plan. The options had been weighed, the various consequences considered, and "yes" was decidedly the worst thing he could possibly say. Which is naturally why he said it.  


         "What's got you all flustered, Cas?" Dean asked as they climbed out of the bus, past the driver, who was leaning against its side and taking deep drags of a cigarette, already down to the filter. Cas shook his head.  
 _Best to wait to scare the living hell out of him,_ he decided.  
"Nothing," Cas answered with a yawn.  
"You must be tired," Dean said, checking the bus schedule on their way inside. "We leave at 12:35, remember that," he added. Cas glanced at his watch, it's massive digital face dominating his thin wrist.  
"I am," he replied. "There's not many opportunities for sleep at my house."  
"It's pretty hectic there, huh?" Dean asked.  
"The evacuation of the Titanic was "hectic," Dean. Times Square is "hectic." My house is a disaster zone." Dean laughed.  
"You'll like Sammy's house, then. It's pretty quiet up there, 'cept when it's filled with his little art major buddies," he said with obvious distaste.  
"Do you have something against art majors?" Cas asked, teasingly defensive.  
"No, no. They're just loud. And their parties and hangovers do not mix. This, I know from experience." What Cas says next more or less tumbles out of his mouth.  


         "You have considerable experience with hangovers, then?" Dean opened his mouth and closed it again, like a fish gasping for air, and swallowed hard.  
"I-" he scoffed tersely, running his hand through his hair. "What makes you say that?" He tried with every fibre of his being to reign himself in.  
 _Look at the guy,_ he thought ardently, _no way he meant anything by it. You've just gotta be patient with him._ Cas sighed. He and his big mouth, fucking up royally yet again. What he wouldn't do for a "restart" button, that he could just go back to the beginning of the trip-or before, even, all the way back to the terminal. But then, real life, unlike video games, couldn't be paused or "saved-and-quitted."  
"I don't know, Dean. I didn't mean anything. I don't know how to act in social situations, I mean, look at me. The only tan I get is from television screens. I have more high scores than I do friends, and more books than people I know the names of. Half the time I never speak, and when I do I don't know what I'm doing, and maybe I should just shut up," he said, interrupting himself. He kneaded his palms with his thumb, as he always did when he got nervous, and glanced at Dean, who laughed dryly.  
"Well, you're perceptive, I'll give ya that," he said. "I can't say I don't, but it was a long time ago. I try not to think about it too much." Like with anything, though, once he'd been reminded of it, his past dwelled on his mind and refused to budge. The counsellors (affectionlessly known by Dean as "those stick-up-their-ass pansies") at AA called this a "bad headspace," whatever the hell that meant, and if there was anything more important to them than staying sober, it was this "headspace" bs.  
"Of course," Cas said, nodding. "I totally understand. Just, forget I said anything." He shoved his hands in his pockets and slumped his shoulders forward.  


         The Smiton station was not half as busy as Slygo; half the occupants were just seeking asylum from the cold.  
"This place is dead," Dean muttered, glancing around. It was the first thing either of them had said in ten minutes since their last painfully awkward exchange. Cas nodded mutely.  
"Have you ever been to Smiton?" he asked.  
"Yep," Dean said. "It's pretty damn likely I've been anyplace you can think of."  
"You did a lot of travelling when you were a child, then?" Cas asked, praying this would be an innocent question. Dean nodded, unoffended.  
"Yep. I was an army brat. How about you?" Cas shook his head.  
"Never," he said.  
"You ever been to Kansas at all?" Dean asked with a small laugh. Cas smiled and shook his head again.  
"Never. I've been to Colorado, though. And Montana, South Dakota, New York, and Alabama."  
"And you said you hate to travel," Dean said, nudging him slightly.  
"Trust me," Cas laughed, "I didn't go because I chose to. I went because I was sent."  
"Sent by who?" Dean asked.  
"My parents. I was sent to stay for a few weeks at a time, at ranches and things," Cas said. Dean nodded, stopping by a newspaper dispenser and slipping in a few quarters. He opened the box and took out a New York Times.  
"Cas, you want one?" Cas furrowed his eyebrows.  
"Yes, thank you," he replied after a moments thought. Dean handed him another paper, which he tucked under his arm.  
"You were a handful, huh?" Dean joked.  
""Handful" may not be the word," Cas replied with a laugh.  


         The truth of the matter was, the ranches and trips had been for one purpose: rehab. But not for drugs, or alcohol. Castiel's offences were far more incendiary in the eyes of his parents. Castiel was gay, and his parents were not having it for a second. They shipped him off to every boy's home, every religious ranch, every Christian camp they could find. It was after 5 years of this-home only in winters, and some springs, spending falls with cassock-clad strangers and summers kissing in secret behind boathouses-that Cas decided he couldn't take another hot summer up on some mountain somewhere surrounded by sheep and hymnals. He lied to his parents, told them he was "cured", and they welcomed him back into the fold. It had never been true, but Cas always managed to cover up the actuality of his nature with "girlfriends" over Christmas and a occasional picture of a girl in the front of his wallet.  


         "You, a troublemaker?" Dean asked with a scoff.  
"Oh, don't act so surprised," Cas dismissed. "I wasn't always this angelic, you know." Dean laughed.  
"Oh, yeah?" He smirked. "I'll bet you were a little deviant, in your day."  
""In my day?"" Cas repeated. "You make it sound like I'm on my way out."  
"I didn't mean it like that," Dean said. "How old are you, anyway?"  
"Eighteen," he answered.  
"Shit," Dean said. "You don't look eighteen."  
"How old do I look?" Cas asked, head cocked curiously.  
"Dunno. Twenty, maybe, nineteen."  
"You're not far off," Cas shrugged. "And you?"  
"Twenty, just last month," Dean replied. Cas glanced down at his watch.  
"We should be getting back to the bus," he said. "I don't want to make the driver wait again."  
"Yeah, alright," Dean replied. "He already hates our guts, anyways." Cas smiled.  
"All thanks to you," he said jokingly.  
"What can I say?" Dean said, opening his arms. "I'm a real charmer."  
 _Sadly, yes,_ Cas thought dryly.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, turns out, this did go somewhere! I'll post the next chapter near the end of February sometime, so it'll be a while yet. Till then, enjoy, and tell me what you think.


	3. +5 Intellect

          Dean climbed back onto the bus, glancing around and clicking on the radio as he passed the dashboard. The driver was nowhere to be found, and he figured a little music couldn't hurt the glum looking occupants of the bus. Everyone except himself and Castiel seemed sulky; the blonde in the motorcycle jacket muttered angrily into her phone. The bearded southerner with grey-green eyes leaned heavily against the window in the seat behind him. He was about to slump down into his seat when a woman sitting in the far back in a low cut top smiled at him under heavily lidded eyes. He smiled back and raised his eyebrows, largely out of habit, before remembering Castiel, who sat back in the seat scanning the paper. He didn't want to leave him alone, of course, but the woman smiled at him and patted the space on the bus seat beside her and his instincts got the better of him.   
He leaned on the back of Castiel's bus seat and said, "Cas, I hate to abandon ya like this, but..." He inclined his head towards the woman and Castiel nodded, used to playing third wheel.   
"Go ahead, Dean," he said, half relieved. The more time he spent with Dean, the more likely he was to fall back into old habits. Dean patted him on the shoulder before striding back to where the woman waited. Castiel leaned back into the chair and read the paper; entertainment, the comics, "Missed Connections." Those always depressed him, with their inherent sense of desperation.   
"I saw you at the I-65 intersection," one read. "You were red haired and blue eyed. We had chemistry. Call me and tell me what kind of car I was in and we'll see where it goes from there." And then, horror of horrors, a winking emoticon. Castiel sighed. 

          "Sad, aren't they?" asked a voice from behind him. He turned to see the blonde from earlier, leaning over the back of his seat.   
"Oh. Yes, they really are. Almost sadder than the obituaries, if you ask me," he said.   
"Definitely," she agreed, moving to sit next to him. "I'd say it goes, "Missed Connections, Marriages, Divorces, Obituaries."" He shifted over to give her room.   
"Marriages rank over funerals?" he asked.   
"Sure," she said. "If you're stuck with one guy for the rest of your life, no matter how much you like him, you might as well be dead." Castiel laughed. He'd never really known how he felt about marriage; his parents' was always so awkward and formal. Naomi Novak and Zachariah Milton were essentially a pragmatist couple; they were only together because each judged the other a "beneficial business decision," so his view of love may have been a little sullied. 

         "So, pretty boy ditched ya, huh?" she asked. Castiel looked over at her from the paper.   
"I wouldn't say "ditched,"" he said. "It's not as though we were ever together."   
"Yeah, alright," she said, utterly unconvinced. "Don't feel too bad. All men are shit."   
"I'm not comfortable with absolutes," he said with a dry laugh. "Although I can't claim to know better."   
"You know, you can play it cool all ya want, blue eyes," the blonde said, "but you watch him and tell me he's not giving off a "more than friends" vibe." She read the paper over his shoulder, pointing out articles as they caught her eye.   
"I think the obit's would be more fun if they included "cause of death"," she said.   
"I can't disagree with you there," he replied. "It would certainly increase readership." She smiled.   
"I like you. What's your name?" she asked.   
"Castiel," he said. "And yours?"   
"Meg. Nice to meet ya, Castiel." 

          When the bus driver climbed back onto the bus, he clicked the music off, right in the middle of "Any Way You Want It," which Meg was humming along with.   
"Hey," Dean called, walking up the aisle back to his seat. "Would it kill ya to turn that back on?" The driver groaned, but turned the radio back on nonetheless.   
"Thank you," Dean said.   
"Whatever," the old man replied begrudgingly.  
"Here comes your boyfriend," Meg muttered. "I'd better go. He seems like the jealous type." She slid over to the seat across the aisle, and Castiel noticed something odd. She didn't have a single bag-just her phone, it seemed. He was about to remark on it, when Dean returned to his seat.   
"What happened with your back-of-the-bus date?" he asked. Dean turned to him, acting as though he hadn't heard.   
"What?"   
"The woman. What came of her?" Castiel repeated.   
"She was married," Dean lied, sounding offended. "Can you believe it?" Truthfully, she was single, and hotter than Dean had originally noticed, but somehow he just didn't feel like it. She tried to kiss him, and at first he kissed her back, but after a moment he had to pretend to get a phone call because somehow it felt even wronger than usual.   
"Sadly, yes," Castiel said. Dean smiled.   
"Yeah, I guess you're right. People who wink at strangers on busses and will make out with any mildly attractive innocent who wanders their way usually aren't really the honest type, huh?" he asked.   
"I wouldn't call you an "innocent"," Castiel said.   
"But you don't disagree with the "mildly attractive" part?" Dean asked with a raise of his eyebrow. Castiel blushed, flicking his eyes from the floor to the admittedly gorgeous face of the man beside him.   
"Don't push it," he said finally, regaining his composure. Dean, smug and satisfied, leaned back in the bus seat and scanned his paper. 

          No sooner had they departed from the station then the rain picked up again, turning into icy slush that accumulated on the roads and the ledges of the bus windows in the late February freeze. At Dean's request, and the driver's annoyance, the music stayed on. The speakers in the bus were lousy, but any speakers were good ones in Dean's opinion. Castiel leaned his head against the window lazily, the read and re-read paper underneath his feet, his Nintendo dejected in his backpack. Dean was turned with his back to the aisle, leaning against the armrest, occasionally glancing Castiel's way over the top of _Catch-22_. He wanted to talk to him (the same was true of Castiel) but he had absolutely no idea of what to say, for the first time in his life. Once, Castiel caught Dean looking at him, green eyes flicking around his face, and smiled. 

          "What're you looking at me for?" he said, mildly offended by virtue of instinct.   
"Me?" Dean asked, playing the innocent expertly. "Oh, no, I wasn't looking at you, I was looking-" thinking quickly, he pointed out the window at the grazing cows huddled together outside. "-At those cows. I was looking at the cows," he repeated. Castiel nodded.   
"Okay," he said, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "You'd think they'd be inside, at this temperature," he added, squinting at the cows in their frozen over field.   
"Yeah," Dean said. "Although, I gotta say, body heat does wonders." Castiel smiled out the window, blush colouring his collarbone.   
"So I'm told," he replied. "Are you enjoying the book?" He turned back around to face Dean, who nodded.   
"Yeah, actually. I mean, it's no _Slaughterhouse Five,_ but it's decent." He paused. "It doesn't end well, though, does it?" he asked.   
"I can't tell you," Castiel answered, sitting up straight. "What would you qualify as ending well?" Dean shrugged.   
"Yossarian gets out, he goes back to America with the chaplain. Nobody dies. Except the Texan," he added. "He bugs me."   
"He's...interesting," Castiel agreed. "He's far from my favourite character."   
"Who is your favourite character?" Dean asked.   
Without hesitation, Castiel answered, "The chaplain." Dean cocked his head slightly and nodded.   
"Yeah, I can see that."   
"See what?"   
"See you, as the chaplain. Ya kinda remind me of him."   
"Do I?" Dean nodded again. Castiel smiled contentedly. "Well, thank you." He turned to face Dean, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

            "What's in that?" Dean asked, gesturing to the thermos.  
"Green tea," Castiel replied, taking the thermos out of the bag. "Would you like to try some?" he offered, unscrewing the lid.   
"Yeah, sure," he said. "What's it taste like?" Cas looked at the bottle's contents for a moment.   
"Vaguely citrusy, I think. I put some honey in it, as well. I think you'll like it." He poured a capful of green tea into the lid and offered it to Dean, who smelled it and stared at it apprehensively.   
"It smells like nothing," he said.   
"Just try it, Dean, you'll like it," Castiel said, convincingly. Dean shrugged and drank the whole thing, all at once, before shaking his head and handing it back to Castiel.  
"Tastes like boiled leaves," he said, the taste of the tea still lingering in his mouth.   
"There's a good reason for that," Castiel replied, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He took another long drink of the tea and Dean shook his head.   
"That stuff must be really good for you, cause it tastes like shit."   
"How do you know what shit tastes like?" Castiel asked, teasingly. His comeback skills had been cultivated by years of growing up with a houseful of siblings; sometimes their fights were innocent, sometimes less so. Dean smiled and nudged Castiel playfully.   
"Oh, shut up, Cas," he muttered, half-chidingly, and went back to reading. 

          "You know if this weather's ever gonna let up?" Dean asked, closing the book. Castiel looked out the window, scanning the horizon. In the middle distance was a patch of blue sky, hemmed in by another dark and cloudy expanse.   
"For a moment or two, judging by the sky," Castiel replied. "But I don't know for certain." He reclined in his seat, with his legs pulled up close to his chest and his arms across his knees, making a shelf where he rested is head.   
"Good," Dean said. "Can't stand this weather. It's bad for travel." Castiel cocked his head.   
"Why is that?" he asked.   
"Well, for one," Dean explained, "it makes the visibility pretty shitty. And for another, the roads 're slick, sometimes. Plus people tend to drive like they've never seen a car before, in the rain." He sighed. "It's kind of a cluster. I avoid it, if I can."   
"Do you still travel often?" Castiel asked, looking over at Dean, who nodded.   
"Almost every weekend," he said. "I mean, I like to drive, and I'm not really used to being in one place for too long, 'cause I travelled so much when I was a kid. It's not like I mind staying settled, 'course," he added. "It's just that I'd rather keep moving." Castiel felt borderline jealous, not of the fact that Dean liked to drive, but the fact that he could. That freedom was never an option to him, but he'd always wanted it.

"So you have a car?" he asked, a tone of wonder in his voice.   
"Yeah," Dean said, as though it was obvious. "What? Don't you?" Castiel looked down and shook his head. "But you've got a licence, don't ya?" he asked. Castiel sighed and shook his head again.   
"You're kidding," Dean laughed, feeling sorry for the poor guy.   
"I'm not. My parents won't sign the forms," Castiel said. This was as honest as he'd been with anyone in quite some time-he rarely talked about his parents, or his day-to-day life, since he didn't have much of anyone to talk to.  
"Jesus," Dean muttered. "Why the hell not?" Castiel shrugged.  
"They just don't trust me. I don't know. Maybe they think I'll run away," he said. Dean paused, thought for a second, and then said, "You know, now that you're eighteen, you can get your licence yourself. You don't need your parents permission or anything, you've just gotta pass a few tests." He put his hand through his hair and added, "I could teach ya, if you want." Castiel smiled at Dean as though he'd hung the moon.   
"Would you?" he asked. Dean couldn't help but smirk at the look on Castiel's face.   
"Sure, Cas," he teased. "You look like Little Orphan Annie or something." Castiel cocked his head for a moment, obviously searching through his mental files and finding nothing. Dean shrugged and nodded.

          "Yeah, sure, I'll teach you. Won't be that hard-you're practically a genius already." Castiel shook his head.   
"Not quite," he said. "Perhaps a prodigy, if anything."   
"There's a difference?" Dean asked. Castiel nodded fervently, leaning forward as though he was going to entrust some great secret to Dean.   
"Yes, actually. See, where prodigies are fast learners, geniuses are more of the "doing" type. And I haven't yet done anything-nothing remarkable, at least-which is why I, if anything, would be a prodigy. If, of course, I fit in either category," he added humbly. Dean scoffed.   
"Cas, the fact that you know the difference between a genius and a prodigy probably means you're one or the other," he said. Cas blushed and shrugged.   
"I wouldn't say that," he said dismissively.   
"Yeah, well, if you won't, I will," Dean replied. Castiel glanced at the ground and smiled embarrassedly, unused to such compliments. "Come on, Cas," he added, "surely somebody's told you that before, right?" Castiel shrugged again, trying to recall the compliments he'd been payed in his lifetime. They were few and far between, and the handful he was given were typically from one person-an old boyfriend, he remembered, two summers ago at a boarding school for the "Troubled and Lost." He could almost hear the words rolling off the other boy's lips-they hovered at the top of his mind like a barely forgotten dream, the moment after waking up.   
"No," he said. "No, I don't believe so."   
"Huh," Dean mused. "So, say I drag your ass to Jeopardy-when you win, you'll give me half the money, right?" Castiel laughed.   
"We'll split it, sixty-forty," he replied.   
"Sounds like a plan," Dean agreed, smiling. 

          "Dean?" Castiel asked, glancing up from his crossword.   
"Yeah?"   
"What's "pleasant surprise?" 11 letters," he asked, biting distractedly on the end of his pen. Dean tore his gaze away from Castiel's lips and said, "Sorry, what?"   
""Pleasant surprise." 11 letters," Castiel replied. He'd caught Dean staring, and had circumstances been different, he would've been thrilled. But circumstances were not different, so he had to pretend like he did not see the light-filled green eyes hang on his mouth for a second or two.   
"Serendipity," answered Meg. She'd been silent for a while, and Castiel had very nearly forgotten about her, perched on the seat across the aisle from them. "Fits, doesn't it?" she asked.   
"Yes, actually," Castiel said, filling in the small squares.   
"Don't sound so surprised," she muttered.   
Castiel clicked his pen and said earnestly, "Forgive me. I just didn't expect you to hear me, is all."   
"Forgiveness ungranted," she replied with a teasing smile. Castiel raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly back.   
"You drive an impressively hard bargain," Castiel said, filling in another set of squares ("philocaly", love of beauty, which he knew off the top of his head, oddly enough.)  
"I'm tougher than I look," Meg shrugged, "which is pretty damn tough to begin with." Castiel smiled, finished off another set of squares ("respite," a period of delay), and curled up in the seat, watching the land pass the window opposite his own. 

          "How long will you be with Sam?" he asked, lifting his head.   
"Three months," Dean answered. Castiel nodded. Three months. The whole time he'd be there, and longer.   
"And what, if it's not too personal, are you doing at his house?" Dean laughed.   
"It's not. I just need a break. And anyways, I don't have a steady job, so I can travel whenever I want, for however long." He laughed again, this time more to himself. "Matter of fact," he added, "my job in Lawrence might just be more steady than the one back in Blackwell, where I live." Castiel smiled and fiddled with the edges of the thin paper of the newspaper he was holding.   
"What do you do? For a living, I mean?" he asked, glancing up from the newspaper at Dean.   
"I'm a mechanic," he replied. "You?"   
"I wait tables. My parents hate it, though," Castiel told Dean. He'd never been this honest with anyone before, this soon after meeting them.   
"Why?" Dean asked, furrowing his eyebrows and setting down the book. He was nearing its end-it was no Slaughterhouse Five, that was for damn sure, but it wasn't half bad. Castiel shrugged.   
"God only knows why they do any of the things they do," he replied with a dry laugh. Dean laughed as well, and nodded.   
"Yeah, I know what you mean. They ever explain it to you? Or try, at least?" he asked. Castiel shook his head.   
"They just told me I didn't need to. My parents, as you likely know, are wealthy people. Most of my siblings, excluding Gabriel, Balthazar, and perhaps Luke, as well, are 'trust fund kids,'" he explained.   
"Huh," Dean mused. "Gabe never really struck me as the 'rich family' type." He shrugged. "But then, neither do you, so..."   
"I'll take that as a compliment," Castiel replied, smiling softly.   
"You should," Dean nodded. "So, how'd your parents come into all this money, anyways?" he asked. Castiel looked down and hesitated.   
"I prefer not to get into it much...I don't associate myself with their money," he answered. Dean smirked-he was always a sucker for the righteous and moral type, especially when that type came with bright blue eyes and perpetual sex hair.   
"Noble of you," Dean said. "But hey, if you ever have a cash influx that you don't know what to do with-" he pointed at his chest. "I will gladly help you out." Castiel laughed.  
"I'll keep that in mind, Dean," he replied, grinning. 

          "So, how does one get into being a mechanic?" Now it was Dean's turn to shrug.   
"Coincidence, I guess. And luck, and a little desperation, and grease." He shook his head. "So much grease."   
Castiel laughed, then asked, "Is it the family business?" Dean shook his head.   
"Something a friend of mine got me involved in. He offered me a job there when I was..." he paused. The words he had cued up in his head were "just starting AA," but those would not do, obviously, so he went with "...when I needed one." Castiel nodded.   
"And do you enjoy the work?" he asked, leaning against the window to face Dean fully.  
"Yeah, I do," Dean replied, nodding. "I like cars. Like workin' on 'em, like fixing 'em up for people. I guess I just like how predictable they are." He glanced down into his bag and took out a can of soda, sipping it. "You?" Castiel thought for a moment.   
"Nothing remarkable," he admitted eventually. "I play video games frequently, but I assume you know that much. I used to be an archer. And I used to ride horses. I suppose I still could, if you put a horse or a bow and arrow in front of me." Dean laughed.  
"That's badass, Cas," he grinned genuinely, no hint of sarcasm to his tone. "You're halfway to Robin Hood." Castiel blushed and shrugged.   
"I should probably rob myself first," he replied. "Perhaps you can help me. Be the Little John to my Robin Hood." Dean chuckled.   
"Gladly," he agreed. "'Long as I don't have to wear those dorky tights."   
"Permission granted," Cas said with a laugh, as they drove underneath the bluest skies they'd seen since boarding the bus at Slygo.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is written in accordance with a tumblr post from ewdean, who suggested a fic about gamer!cas and mechanic!dean ending up staying at Sam's house at the same time, after meeting by accident at the bus station. Enjoy and more to come (maybe).


End file.
